


from your eyes to your waist

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [45]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: requested by @applezoni on tumblr
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	from your eyes to your waist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applezoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applezoni/gifts).



> title from _taste_ by rhye
> 
> _one more time for my taste  
>  see me fall from your eyes to your waist  
> one more time for my taste  
> drink this wine from your sweet, from your case  
> I feel your love, I feel your faith always_

John loves Sherlock in a kaleidoscope of colour. Blues, greens, pretty pastel-cream-white and sugar on John’s tongue. Trailing fingers leaving red, uneven lines over pale skin. A hungry mouth, reverent lips painting marks of adoration down an ivory neck, slackened spine and straining tendons. Thunder in the air, stroking vibrations of electric almosts drawn down long thighs with shaking nails. The flavour of strawberry ice cream over John’s tongue. Drizzling down his throat, sticky-sweet, spread over fingertips in saccharine serenades. The taste of Sherlock’s tongue is a flooding sensory memory of sunshine, blue skies and fat, white clouds. 

Cheek-to-cheek, dancing with closed eyes and hands on waists, fingers holding shoulders, trails of resolved yearning found buried in the throats of adrenaline junkies and cocaine addicts. Catching smoke is easier than keeping Sherlock from the call of a case, and only a quarter worth it. John’s fickle, incandescent man is dust in the wind, a violin note on the breeze, the shadow drifting over the moon on star-spangled nights. Success means tangled sheets and shifting bodies, reflections cast on sweat-damp skin. The taste of saltwater, ozone, and strawberries in the crook of Sherlock’s arched neck. 

Walking in Sherlock’s unsteady footsteps drags John’s lungs through acrid, bitter adrenaline. Keeps the danger pumping through his veins. Threat required to make a broken soldier whole. Bullets beat uneven rhythms over curved tunnel walls, bringing the acid taste of fear. A sociopath spreads his hands, and John covers bruise marks with lips, teeth, tongue.

John is what they call a ‘broken man.’ A man of violence and gun powder, with black burns folded into his skin, permanent markings of the soldier, the violent, the fallen. Sherlock breaks in more subtle ways, digging deep fault lines beneath a hard exterior mask. When he splits at the seams, comes apart in calamity, falls to his knees with empty eyes, John is his constant companion in the dark. Picks him up, puts him back together, makes their jagged edges match. Walks love over peaches-and-cream skin with fingertips and the taste of strawberry kisses in the soft flesh below Sherlock’s ear.

Summertime wine and blackberry juice spread over open mouths never tasted better than the stretch of white below Sherlock’s collar bones. Fragile butterfly kisses and caterpillar metamorphosis pale in comparison to the spidery cast of soot lashes on creamy cheeks. Promises to lick wounds and devour deep-seated faith drop from rapturous teeth and tongue and praise-heavy lips. 

Every time John Watson kisses his delectable detective, he breathes fizzing champagne, racing summer storms. The soft, sweet, stickiness of salty flesh and verdant heartbeats. Vivisection exploration of ribcage ridges and rasping, rumbling pleas for more in sweat-damp sheets and trembling thighs under grabbing hands eat away at empty afternoons. Arched spines and cries for salvation spread under a taste of milk and honey. The dip of Sherlock’s hip paints strawberry dreams down John’s chin, over his open mouth. Gold-lit evenings tangled together feel like rain on naked flesh, sun between the cloud, and static cling. Electroshocks under the skin. Fire swallowed from the end of a torch, spitting, hissing, dying deep in the lungs. 

Kissing Sherlock is strawberry ice cream on John’s tongue, and he can never get enough.

  
  
  
  



End file.
